His Shakespearean Tragedy
by Hermione W. Cullen
Summary: The mysteries of the Phantom's past are unlocked as he lay dying. As the memories flood in we are acquainted with an ugly young boy, a very unhappy Daae, and a gentle, taciturn apothecary... *NEWLY REFURBISHED!*
1. When Erik Was Beautiful

**His Shakespearean Tragedy**

**By Hermione W. Cullen**

**Chapter One: When Erik Was Beautiful**

_Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or plot lines that you recognize from the book or musica (which, by the way, are two very different things—don't get them confused!l, blah blah blah._

_A/N: I have actually been working on this story for several years. I started it circa 2004, when I was in eighth grade. Due to the enormous stretches of time between chapters, there were some discrepancies between chapters…so I have decided to go back and correct these errors. I have left the essential story the same, but I think you'll find it much more readable. As in, as much as I would like to edit some of the thirteen-year-old drama out of the earlier chapters, I won't._

Erik sat in his dark underground cavern, not crying. Though he had cried many times throughout his life, he wasn't sure if he was able to now. He looked back at his life and pondered its meaning, from his blundering youth in Persia to his final moments as the Phantom of the Opera. The moments that had just occurred, or maybe that were occurring now. The transition was or wasn't complete. In any case, The Phantom of the Opera would spend his last few hours of life as Erik. Erik's last breath would have no mask hiding it. A man whose life had been mostly a masquerade would die in a new _dramatis persona_, as himself. Erik knew this was the only way to get any peace of mind. He hadn't eaten or slept For a month, and the end of his tale was drawing near. He was finally happy, and would die at peace, accepting his life of great accomplishment or great failure.

_Erik's memory: Persia, a very long time ago._

It had been that fateful September morning that would change his life forever. The air smelled sweet and the sky was clear. Twelve-year-old Erik stepped out into the early spring morning. He loved these kinds of days, when the air was cool but not freezing. Everything was perfect, except for his long list of chores. The young boy was bound to serve his adoptive family. Erik had been left on the porch of family in question at the age of three months. No one had known at the time, but his big, beautiful brain had a disease that would cause him to develop horrible deformities starting around age five. The blonde, blue-eyed babe had begun to develop what looked like burn marks on the right side of his face in the first stage. From there, it had steadily gotten worse each year. Now, at twelve, he was in many people's view horrible to look upon. The right side of his face was grotesquely disfigured, unimaginable and indescribable. The skin on his left side was yellow and pockmarked. Erik's Eyes were slightly sunken and something corrosive was eating away at his nose. His mouth hadn't grown since he was eight. The boy was a miserable and horrifying sight. Any of the villagers would have told you willingly enough that they understood why his family couldn't stand having him in the house. If he was there, they risked going into shock with every turn, risked seeing his ugly face. Erik understood this. He had taken to wearing an old mask he'd found in a curiosity shoppe, a purple one lined with shining threads. It gave the homely boy a feeling of mystery and grandeur. Theatrics had always given him a thrill. He had experimented with different kinds of "magic", disappearing and voice magnification and such. The very skills he would later use to become the Phantom of the Opera, the grand, mysterious, enchanting madman. Erik's perfect alter ego.

So in his mask he ventured out into the open air. His black tailcoat, which was a bit long, dragged in the dirt. Erik didn't care. The wash lady owed him a favor, since he had created a sort of machine that had speeded up her job. If Erik ever needed to clean up for a formal event (fat chance there was a formal event that he'd be allowed at), He could do so with a snap of his long, spindly fingers.

After a long day of calling in favors to lighten his workload, Erik went home for supper. There his family was waiting for him. Or, more specifically, dreading his reappearance, pausing in their daily tasks to bite their nails with stress at the thought of it.

"Good evening, _Mami_. And you, _Papi_." He said cheerfully. Few could help but love homely little Erik. Love and hate and pity. It was his curse and his blessing, cause of all his joy and woe. Little Erik didn't really understand why everyone despised him from the moment they first saw him. All he knew was that something was wrong. Erik was not one to take things at face value.

"Good evening, Erik. It's lovely to see you," said Erik's mother curlty. She wasn't in the mood for horrible young Erik today. Her husband's business had taken a turn for the worse.

Erik's father was sitting at his desk a few feet away, his head in his hands. Erik knew something was wrong. He'd always had a certain intuition in that area.

"Papi? Is something the matter?" If anyone could have seen under that mask of his, they would know that his ugly face became a pinch uglier, showing that he was concerned.

"Go away, child. I cannot bear to look at you today." Erik did not, as he usually did, argue that he had his mask on. He could take a hint. He was, after all, probably the greatest mind of his generation.

"Yes, Papi. I will go to my room now. Mami, call me down when it is suppertime." Erik's mother gave a grunt and a nod, wondering why the horrible thing insisted on calling her Mami. However, she was unable to deny what could have been a charming young lad this one little pleasure in what she knew would be his long, miserable life. She was, after all, not completely cold-hearted. Was she? It was times like these she wished that Erik would disappear, that she and her husband could live in peace. They had never wanted children.

"Bali?" Erik's mother asked her husband, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," replied Erik's father. "Just go prepare supper." With that, Christiana Daae stood to put water on the stove.


	2. Erik and Christiana

**Chapter Two: Erik and Christiana**

_Sorry this one is so short….remember, this is from a long time ago!_

Erik was fourteen, and he had begun to realize. Village children avoided him. Favors were forgotten. His parents despised him. The disheartened boy rarely left his room, except to eat and bathe.

The boy's face was without a doubt indescribable, but I will undertake to describe it in any case. One cannot imagine what two years of rot and decay can do to a face that is already so gruesome….

The right side was unbearable to look upon. You could barely see the sunken red dot that was once a crystalline blue eye. The skin was thin, yellow, and peeling, so that in some places you could see living muscle and festering veins. His mouth was twisted in an unnatural and probably uncomfortable position. The left side was also disgusting, read and swollen. His cheeks were dotted with mysterious blisters and his puffy eye distorted by the sheer mass of his infected tissue, though there was still a deceivingly cheery glint of blue visible. Erik had taken to wearing a half-mask night and day, knowing not even his family should be forced to bear the macabre sight that was the boy's face, to have that sickening feeling that you should never have looked at something, but cannot tear your eyes away now that you have. Erik's limbs were beginning to be affected too, though only by small rashes as of yet.

His mother could not bear the sight. She constantly compared her life to her siblings', wondering what it was she'd done to deserve this curse. Her older sister, Anita, had a well-off husband and two fine little baby boys. She had moved to Copenhagen, Denmark, with her husband. Anita seemed very happy to leave Sweden, which puzzled Christiana, who had left their family home grudgingly. Christiana had been married off, which she saw as a punishment for her astonishing lack of ability to find a true love and be swept away already. Her sister seemed to have had no problem with it! Sometimes Christiana wondered—was there something wrong with her?

But who did Christiana most compare herself to? Her younger brother, a dashing boy who played the violin. He had had everything—a set and profitable career, a permanent home (their family holdings in Sweden, where he had stayed after their parents died), and most of all, a beautiful wife.

Juliet Capellini Daae was an English noblewoman. She had met the charming young man on the crossing to Israel (her father's business; she was to be married) and was immediately captivated. The two had run away together to live in the Daae villa, and were now happily married and expecting their first child. While many would look upon the couple's history as disreputable, Christiana saw their escape as romantic and fantastic, saw her brother as the type of Prince Charming she had only dreamed of. But not for her, obviously. Let Juliet have him, while she withered away in this remote corner of Persia, with her stiff husband and no one to play her favorite song on the violin. No one to enchant her with the mere twitch of his fingers across the happy string. There was no doubt in her mind that Christiana had loved her brother. As the youngest, and only two years apart, the two had bonded as children, never to see each other again as adults.

Well, Christiana reasoned, she didn't know that for sure. Really, she didn't know where her husband's business would bring her next. That was, if it survived miserable little Erik. The monstrous child slowly chipped away at their reputation, just as some unknown source did to his face. Many natives believed that Erik was the work of the Devil, or that he was being punished by their God. Christiana couldn't quite believe that, but she knew the child was in trouble. She decided to take Erik to the Apothecary, to see what the doctor could do.

_Dun dun dun…_


	3. The Apothecary

**Chapter Three: The Apothecary**

_This and chapter two were originally one chapter, which I split up so they wouldn't…well…be one long chapter. I decided to keep it that way, for titling purposes and because the division makes sense. So here it is…_

They were an odd pair, Erik and Christiana. The lady, with dark, curly hair and alabaster skin, and the youth, gawky and unsure. His periwinkle tailcoat was too long, his shiny black clogs too small, and his red sequin-lined formal mask clashed. Christiana's dainty velvet shoes stepped briskly, while poor Erik stumbled along, trying to keep up. Finally they reached the apothecary.

It was a small shop, built of wood and sternly painted. A little bell tinkled when they opened the door.

Standing at the counter was a small man, with skin the color of freshly cut cedar and eyes like midnight—black and strongly twinkling. "How may I help you?" He asked. His voice was soft and lilting, but somehow still strong, solid and grounded. He brushed back his dark, cleanly cut hair and stepped out from behind the counter.

Christiana motioned to Erik, who quickly lifted his mask and then let it snap back into place.

"I'm sorry, boy," said the apothecary, "I didn't see. I'm afraid you'll have to remove the mask completely." Erik bit his lip and shook his head. So the apothecary walked up to Erik and removed the mask. Then he gaped.

"What?" snarled Erik through his crooked teeth.

"Nothing, nothing at all," said the apothecary. "Now, to business. Ms…"

"Daee."

"Yes, Ms. Daee. I suppose you would like me to…_cure_ young—"

"Erik," Christiana informed him stiffly.

"Ah, yes Erik. That's a nice name, young man."

"You can cure me, right?" asked Erik hopefully, cutting the conversation to the quick.

"Er…yes, I suppose. Uh, listen, I'm going to go and mix up something for you…just a moment." The apothecary went behind the counter again and began pulling herbs out of drawers in a seemingly random order. He then put them in a clay pot along with a bit of water and stirred the mixture.

"Now, I want you to apply this to the affected parts of your skin every night before bed, then let it dry before putting on your nightclothes," said the apothecary as he spooned the paste into a jar. He then handed the sealed jar to Christiana, who in turn gave the paste to Erik.

"Thank you, doctor. How much do I owe you?"

"Thank you for offering, ma'am, but if I'm going to be honest, I can't take your money until the mixture starts working."

"Why?" asked Erik. "It will work, won't it?" He knew he was being childish. It took a tremendous amount of discipline to keep from throwing the jar across the room. Instead, he clutched the precious mixture tightly in his mangled hands.

"Come, Erik, let's go." And with a final nod to the apothecary, Christiana led Erik out of the shop.

A week later, Erik was back in the apothecary. Wearing his mask. The doctor recognized him immedialtley.

"Good morning, Erik. How is your face progressing?"

"Not well, Doctor. Not well at all."

"I was afraid of that. Come, let's have a look." The doctor motioned the boy into the surgical room, where he sat down on a small bench and willingly removed his mask.

Before the doctor had time to gasp at the macabre sight before him, Erik began to speak.

"Oh, Sir, is there anything you can do? Please! My mother says that if it doesn't clear up, she'll send me away to boarding school!" Erik had a secret hate growing inside him. He didn't like begging like this. It sounded childish. If only he weren't so damn ugly…

"Take me to your mother, lad, and I'll have a word with her."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Erik escaped inside his own mind, fixating. He thought of the emotional simplicity of his boyhood, how he had had trouble understanding the complex concepts of hate and revulsion. But he had learned them over time, and clung to them. Now, in the disjointed mishmash of his final hours, Erik held on to them tighter than ever. Hatred felt good coursing through his veins, like breath, like life, like love…only easier.

_I added that last bit. Hope you're liking it. Review!_


	4. A Loose Alliance

**Chapter Three: A Loose Alliance**

_As the story progressed, the chapters did not seem to increase in length, the author noted with surprise…she resolved to fix that soon. The author also apologized for the fact that she wrote this chapter when she was in eighth grade._

Erik had run away. He just couldn't take the way his parents looked at him. With revulsion, as if his mask wasn't there at all. He felt disgusting through and through. The boy hoped that maybe, just maybe, his mother would feel some semblance of guilt for the way she had treated him. He was her fault, and he hoped she knew it.

Presently, Erik came upon the Apothecary's shop. Not knowing where else to go, he went in.

"Excuse me, Sir—" he said. The Apothecary jumped.

"Oh, hello, Erik," he said, composing himself, "have a seat. I'll be with you in a moment." The Apothecary rushed about, filling this jug and that, mixing such herb and such, for quite a while. It would appear he was very busy. Or that he was avoiding something.

Finally, it reached noontime. People stopped coming in. The village quieted as citizens went home to eat, or on a lunch rendezvous, or just sat because they had no food and everything was closed for the lunch hour. After taking several minutes to rest, the apothecary moved toward Erik.

"Now, boy, what is it you want?" The Apothecary's face sparkled with false cheeriness, but the lines on his face gave away his true feelings. He did not so much fear the boy's gruesome appearance as he did Erik's simplistic hope and easy anger. The Apothecary sensed the makings of a formidable figure in the young man.

"I ran away from home, sir," said Erik. He stared curiously into the apothecary's eyes, trying to get an inkling of what might be going on behind the man's impassive expression.

"You ran away, did you? And why ever would you want to do something like that?" The apothecary looked more tired with every syllable he spoke.

"Nobody wants me, and nobody ever will," said Erik simply, almost casually.

"Ah," said the apothecary. "So you're running away from you fears? I happen to know from experience, that's not the best way…You have to face them, son." The Apothecary was just as surprised as Erik was at this term of endearment.

"I'm not afraid," lied Erik, "and I'm not running. I'm looking for something." That last part was true.

"And what might that be, son?"

"That's the trouble…I don't know. I don't know what to look for. I don't know where to go. I don't know anything. I don't know."

"So you came to me, eh?"

"Yes, sir. I was hoping you could help me…"

The apothecary studied Erik for a moment. "You know what, Erik?" he mused, "I think I'm hoping the same thing."

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Erik stopped crying. He remembered now. He remembered the Apothecary. He remembered his the grudging tolerance with which he had always been treated. He remembered his own gruesome, twisted face, back when he had had one. He remembered, and he despaired.

He was troubled the turn his life had taken. So many years of hiding, distracting, masking that he could no longer cast off the pretense. A voice within asked him if he could ever really be Erik again.

He didn't know.

_I noticed that there's a lot of conflict in the Apothecary's characterization between chapters, especially from the old to the new. I'm doing my best to change that._


	5. Escape

**Chapter Four: Escape**

_This is the first of the new chapters. Consequentially, it's a lot better. That's not to say I didn't find any errors to edit… _

The dark man, with skin like finely carved Cedar wood, looked odd seated next to the demon on the metal bench.

They seemed to be waiting for the next coach.

In fact, they were. The apothecary had relatives in the grand capital city, just a few stucco townhouses down from the magnificent feast of excess that was the Sultan's palace.

Erik, hideous, bitter teenage Erik, felt some of the joy and goodness of his boyhood returning to him. Of course he had read about the capital—in _Tales of One Thousand Nights_, and other similar books—but he never dreamed he would be able to escape his home to go there. He was rapt with excitement, and it showed in the glint of the ice blue sliver in his mask—his eye. His mask today was deep blue and beautifully detailed with gold-colored paint. He looked dashing in one of the Apothecary's fine gray cloaks. It would have been the perfect moment, if it weren't for the bitterness pounding against the back wall of his every emotion. Because it had been three weeks, and his mother still hadn't made any effort to find him, even though he was just a few blocks away. She hadn't even asked about.

The Apothecary didn't mind Erik in the least. Over the three weeks he had allowed the boy to sleep in the spare room of the little apartment at the back of his medicine shop, he had found the boy to be cunning, skillful with his long, pale hands and quite charming when he let his guard down. So when he received the invitation to his sister Samirka's home (on behalf of the Sultan) to live with her and be the palace Doctor, the Apothecary had thought it worthwhile to ask Erik to come with him.

Erik had been delighted, his warped face reforming into a horrendous mask of joy.

Now the coach came.

It would be a long journey, but that was okay with both of them. They spoke rarely.

One of those times was when Erik realized he still didn't know the Apothecary's name.

"What is your name?" he asked.

The Apothecary scrutinized young Erik for a moment. Nearly able to be called a man, yet so much a child. Finally he answered, "I don't have one."

Erik returned the gaze shrewdly. "In that case, what shall _I_ call you?"

"Call me whatever name strikes your fancy."

"What is a good name for someone great?"

"None come to mind at the moment."

"Well, think on it. I should like to give you a great name, because it is clear that you are a great man. You saved me. You took me in, you helped me escape. You wanted me, even though I was ugly and miserable. You are great because you did what no one else could do; you wanted me. So I am glad to go with you, because I know I will be safe, because I am in the hands of a great man."

The silence returned.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Greatness, that treacherous dream, had abandoned Erik now. There he lay, a true Phantom, feeling his own self fade. A sting on his cheek. Perfect, just what the Phantom needed. A final progression of his infection, its sharp pain strengthened by the salt and warmth of a tear.

Three floors above, a lonely Persian man sat in his quarters in the lowest sub-basement of the opera house. He was a fine and dignified being, but now he was haggard-looking, as he was wracked with phantom sobs.


	6. A Conflict of Names

**Chapter 6: A Conflict of Names**

_I hope that, after all my edits, the story will correlate pretty well with the book, and with the other chapters. Please inform me of any errors I missed (a review would be a good place to do this). Having never been to Persia (modern-day Iran), I can't guarantee that my descriptions are accurate…actually, they mostly fit nineteenth century stereotypes…but this IS fiction, and it was a lot of fun to write._

Eric followed the Apothecary through the streets of the Capital. He watched with amazement as they made their way through the amoebic mass of hypnotic colors and sounds. The streets looked like one big marketplace, packed with people of all different colors, shapes and creeds. There were brightly clothed Southerners; several people from the East; Proper-looking, dourly dressed Westerners; and even a few big, bearded men from the North. The cacophony of languages, the jingling of purses and vendor's wares, the calls of animals and the songs of street performers all collided in a chaotic symphony. It's beautiful, thought Erik. They're all beautiful.

With a firm hand on the boy's mangled shoulder, the Apothecary led Erik deftly through the intertwining crowd to a quieter side street. This passage was lined with brightly colored stucco row houses. Several of the row houses had white canvas canopies over their doorsteps, and groups of people seemed to gather underneath these. The Apothecary halted in front of the most brightly painted of them all. It was canary yellow, with faded green windowsills and door. There were flower boxes that were bursting with wildflowers of every color, shape and size; the yard smelled lovely. The house's owners had even managed to paint the thatched roof a soft lilac (_where_ they got that color was impossible to tell). This house had a canopy, too, with a deep red beaded fringe; the beads reflected the sunlight in rich, round dollops. A clothesline was just visible in the alley between this house and the neighbors' (which was blue), and the grass in the small yard looked as if it had never been cut (which it probably hadn't).

The Apothecary stepped up and rang the doorbell. Erik was immediately swept into a whirlwind of brash affection. A woman—a stocky woman with dark skin like cherry wood and a fierce twinkle in her dark eyes, as if she'd been clinging onto her vitality too long to let it go now—swept him up in a hug once, twice, completely disregarding his stiff mask and the awkward fit of his tailcoat. Finally, she caught the Apothecary in a tight embrace, kissed him on the cheek, and, while holding him by the shoulders and looking him in the eye, spoke.

"Oh, Percival, it has been much too long!" She had a deep, throaty, thickly accented voice. There was something appealing about it; it had the same musical undertones as the Apothecary's. Erik, however, was staggered by this unlikely name.

"_Percival_?" he asked rather crudely. The Apothecary, however, ignored him.

"Truly, Samirka, it seems like a lifetime." He put his arm around her shoulder. "Now, sister, would you kindly show us inside? I believe my friend Erik here could do with something to drink."

"Oh, of course, of course. Erik, is it?" Samirka gave him a brief, appraising look with her piercing eyes. Then she wrapped her free arm around his shoulder. "Well, come in, dear, and make yourself at home." And the threesome stepped through the threshold.

It was a wonderful night. The interior of Samirka's house was just as full and cozy and richly furnished as the outside. She lived alone with her orange cat Mungo, but there was plenty of room for Erik and Percival. Later that evening, when the food and wine had relaxed Erik a bit, he asked The Apothecary and his sister about their odd, opposing names.

"Well," began Samirka, "That's really quite an interesting story." She looked at her brother, who gave a refined chuckle.

"Yes, it is. Our parents—" but Samirka interrupted him.

"Our parents were as different as cloves and cinnamon," she remembered fondly.

"And as alike," The Apothecary interjected. Erik gave him a questioning look, but Samirka did not object.

"We were born two years apart," she said. " Percival—" she smiled at him "—is the younger. Now, mama was a fine upper-class Persian woman, and as Persian as it was possible to be. Papa came to the capital from out of town, as a young student. He had been taught as a boy by an Englishman, and had quite taken to Western culture." She chortled throatily, her voice far away.

"Mama and Papa met at the College, where she was visiting with her uncle, an alumnus. Despite their differences in mannerisms and behaviors, they could not stay away from each other. They were married within the year, and living well off Mama's handsome dowry."

"And so," said The Apothecary.

"And so. So the real trouble didn't come till they had us. Me, to be precise. Mama wanted to give me a traditional name, a name that reflected my true heritage. Papa wanted to give me a modern, Western name, thinking that it would somehow give me an advantage." She laughed again at that. "Well, Mama won out with me, as she always did. But when Percival here came along, Mama let Papa have his say."

"And so we are two siblings named Samirka and Percival, and could not be closer if we shared a name," finished The Apothecary fondly.

Erik paused, thinking.

"Percival, eh?" The Apothecary did not respond. "Well, I shan't call you that. It's a good name, but hardly a name for a great man, is it? I shall have to think of something else."

Samirka looked at her brother and burst out laughing. "That's quite a boy you've got there, Percival. I'd keep him if I were you."

"Oh, I plan to."

A pause.

"Well," said Samirka, "I'm going to bed. We have a big day tomorrow; Perce is going to start work for the Sultan, Erik, and you're to go with him to tour the palace! Won't that be wonderful?" Erik's eye slit lit up.

"Yes, ma'am, I should like that very much."

"Call me Samirka. Or Sami, if you prefer. Well, I'm off. Good night." She went, and The Apothecary followed soon after. Erik lingered for a moment, staring into the dying fire as he thought of the days and weeks ahead. Tomorrow looked bright, he realized. In that moment he also realized that he hadn't been wearing his mask all night, and that Samirka hadn't given a moment's notice to his abomination of a face.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

It got better and worse, depending on the moment. The Phantom of the Opera, who had always cared greatly for names, let one name consume his mind.

"Christi-" he called out weakly, unable to finish the name with his swollen tongue. But it was alright; the Phantom knew that the sweetness of that name would guide him through his final hours.

_Those are my edits…actual new chapter coming soon! _


	7. Magician

First chapter to be added to the New and Improved Refurbished Version of His Shakespearean Tragedy

_First chapter to be added to the_ New and Improved Refurbished Version of His Shakespearean Tragedy! _Oh, I do hope you like it. By the way, it may interest you to know that this is a fantasy-Persia, as I've no idea what the real one looks like. The palace is entirely fictionl, a parrotish daydream from my weirdest dreams. I'm also perfectly aware that the name "Samirka" is not a "good, Persian name." I just like the way it sounds. I did learn in history class that 'Sultan' means the same as 'king,'so I'm treating mine as exactly that._

**Chapter 7: Magician**

Erik followed the Apothecary down the dusty, crowded street. As the first-sight glamour of the market-place wore off, the boy began to see hints of poverty like slivers of clarity through a golden fog. The vendors' rich clothing, he saw, was worn to breaking point, thick with dust. He spotted a middle-aged woman selling a splendid necklace to a merchant's wife. She looked tired, Erik thought, as if it were no longer by her own volition that she sold the jewelry, but by that of some great invisible hand, one that bent her back and moved her arms and forced her to keep going.

The merchant's wife didn't notice. Erik wanted to help the woman, but he moved along; there was nothing he could do. If the Apothecary saw anything worth noticing, he didn't mention it.

Outside the elaborately painted gates of the large palace sat a ragged handful of children. A girl of perhaps ten years approached Erik. She had dark skin, dark wispy hair coated with dust, and wide, empty eyes. She was the very picture of desperation, at an age when no child should have enough experience to be desperate.

She began to speak to him, in a high, clear, frantic voice. Erik couldn't understand a word. The Apothecary nudged him onward, glancing at the girl with regretful eyes.

Then they were through the gates, and Erik forgot the girl for a moment. They were in the most splendid garden he had ever seen. It was highly stylized and yet it appeared to be in no particular order. Flowers exploded from geometrically shaped plots, filling the space with crackling sparks of color and scent. Large fountains sprinkled cool turquoise water; the bluish-green beads clashed with the highly colored sky. In the middle of all this was a straight path of sparkling cobblestone, which led up to the large mahogany doors.

"What is this?" Erik asked the Apothecary, awed.

"This," said the Apothecary, almost grinning, "is the entryway. If you would like to see the rest, I suggest you start moving." Erik nodded in agreement, closing his mouth (which was concealed today by his grandest mask, stained ivory with gold-paint filigree) and began to walk.

When they entered the palace, Erik gasped again. The front hall was huge, round, with a ceiling about forty times his height. The floor and ceiling were tiled with a pattern of bright blue flowers. Several splendidly dressed courtiers wandered the hall. A few seemed to be waiting. One such man approached them.

"Are you the doctor?" he asked the Apothecary, toward whom he did not seem inclined to be polite.

"Yes," replied the Apothecary simply.

"Follow me," said the man. The Apothecary did so, and Erik trailed behind them. As they walked what seemed to be a rather long way, Erik took in the halls, each more impressive than the last. The eye-watering colors, the intricate moldings, the decorated ceilings; these all contributed to the already heightened sense of romanticism Erik possessed. He was elated to know that a place like this could exist beyond his own imagination, delighted to find that the splendor of the human mind could be translated to brick and tile.

"Here," their guide said shortly. Erik turned expectantly, and saw that the courtier was gesturing toward an elaborately carved wooden door. The Apothecary opened it and, though Erik wanted to pause to admire the handiwork, he followed the man through.

Here was the throne room—an even more richly decorated affair than the rest of the palace. It was decked out in gold, from the carved molding to the soft rugs. The sultan himself—an impressively tall man with a toothbrush moustache—sat on embroidered silk cushions in a golden throne. His costume was pristine, if pretentious, and his cedar-wood skin lacked the lustre of the Apothecary's.

"This is the doctor?" the Sultan asked their guide, who nodded. The Apothecary bowed, and Erik quickly copied the action.

"Charming," said the Sultan, stiffly approving. "And who is this?" he gestured toward Erik.

"Erik," he said, maintaining eye contact. "I'm his, that is to say, er—apprentice. Yeah, apprentice." Erik looked at the Apothecary for confirmation, but the man was staring straight ahead, trying hard not to laugh.

"Absolutely delightful," the Sultan muttered. His beady, suspicious eyes fixed languidly on the spot between Erik and the Apothecary. "Well," he announced in a voice full of cheer that fell flat, "I suppose you know why you are here."

"I was sent for, Your Majesty," the Apothecary answered, his manner flawlessly natural. "The letter said I was to be appointed royal doctor."

"So you will be," the Sultan replied. "I have heard great things about you, sir. They say you are the best doctor on the continent. They say your potions are magical. They say that no other apothecary has been able to simulate your medicines with any effect. Tell me, is this true?" Erik was startled to see the eagerness in the Sultan's eyes, the greedy way he digested the Apothecary's reaction to this reciting of tales.

"As to the first and second, I couldn't say," the Apothecary hedged modestly, "but for the second, if there is any trace of the occult about my medicines, it is not my doing. I simply heal, Your Majesty. That is my sole purpose."

"Indeed," the Sultan mumbled. "You, boy," he said more loudly, "what about you?" His hollow gaze fixed unmistakably on Erik.

"Me, sir? I mean, Your Majesty?" the lad replied, hurriedly correcting himself.

"Yes," the Sultan replied, ignoring the blunder. "What are your feelings on magic?"

Under his mask, Erik bit his swollen lip, looking for the words to satisfy both his king and his master. "If…it were in my power…to make it real…I would, Your Majesty," he finally replied.

The Sultan blinked slowly, as if suffering a great disappointment. "You are dismissed," he said to Erik, "Wait outside while I talk to your master."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Erik replied, hurriedly bowing and backing out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, the Apothecary met him, saying nothing but looking very grim indeed.

……………………………………………………………………………………

**A/N: I know, I know. It's a short chapter. But I assure you I have a purpose. We're just reaching the brink of the story the book's readers will recognize. Do you see it coming? Do you? Do you? Review!**


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